A TOWN CALLED KARATE
by Neil Davies1
Summary: "Dying is easy, it's living that's hard." When a gang of bikers roar into a small dusty town they encounter a man who is way tougher than them, who has moves and an attitude beyond anything they would have believed possible. Set before the movie this prequel is action-packed.


A TOWN CALLED KARATE

Like snarling beasts the six Harley's chewed up the decaying black top spitting a hail of grit, stone and dust in their wake. Each was a different colour yet all bore the same logo curling its way along their chassis, a snake, a cobra with its jaws wide tongue extended and eyes blazing.

The word COBRA was on the back of every jacket in silver studs that caught the noon day sun flashing like falling stars and every man had a snake tattoo either on his arm or around his neck.

Jerry Kreese, leader of the group, sat proudly on his blood red Harley his long black hair blowing back to expose a handsome but cruel face with small scars around the eyes and lips and a once broken nose that now gave him real character.

With the black eyes of a pirate and the smile of an urban psychopath Jerry looked what he was, one dangerous dude the kind of guy you don't mess with if you've got any sense.

When he slowed so did the others and when he stopped they ringed him keen to see what had grabbed his attention, Jerry set the pace he ruled his chapter with an iron fist.

Now he was staring at a sun blistered, weather beaten sign. He cocked a thumb at the name on the sign the name of the next town and under it a rough approximation of those living there, not many barely over 200. A hick town, a backwater, some dusty dump he normally would have ridden through with a loud holler but not stopped.

This time he was intrigued, after all what kind of half assed one horse town called itself KARATE? To him it sounded like a challenge and he never shirked them, he was a man with no fear.

"Crap," said Andy to his left.

"It's gotta be a joke," Brad spat into the dust.

"Maybe," said Jerry with a glint in his eye, "But it's hot and I'm thirsty," the place had to sell beer, who didn't sell beer? He gunned his engine, just 3 more miles, with a sharp snap kick he demolished the sign snapping its vertical beam in half with a shout then off he drove, his grinning pack not far behind him.

As towns went KARATE was a hole, even by the low standards of this territory it looked like the setting for a B western one of those Italian cowboy movies Clint had once dominated. Jerry could barely hide his disgust as he and the cobras pulled up outside the only drinking hole in sight.

It had once been called Bart's but someone had fixed the sign, straightened it and painted over Bart the word 'BUDO' squinting Jerry gazed at this, swore and dismounted.

What the hell was going on first the town's name now this, he automatically smoothed the patch on his left breast which declared in fading ink 'Midwest karate champion' one of many titles he currently held with great pride.

"Bullshit," Hank snorted hiking up the black belt around his jeans; it was festooned with oriental characters.

"Let's find out," going to the front door Jerry booted it open not caring if there was anyone on the other side; there wasn't.

Some feet away a stiff bristled brush swept back and forth, the short man holding it didn't look up seeming to be totally engrossed in his task. Jerry noted his ethnicity with distaste, the narrow slanted eyes and dark hair. He pointed and the other bikers glanced over with scowls.

"Sonofabitch," said Andy touching a thin white scar on his left cheek, a shrapnel injury that almost bisected his once handsome features.

"Can I help you gents," asked a jovial, gravelly voice behind the bar and Jerry turned to see a thin, bald fifties guy with lots of freckles and wearing a faded waistcoat with a pocket watch. He might have stepped straight from central casting if RAWHIDE wanted a bar keep to serve Gil and Rowdy.

"Beers," Jerry snapped, "American," he hated imports. When he turned back the brush was still there leaning on a table but the oriental guy had vanished swiftly and silently.

"Where's the slant," Jerry went over to the brush, "The guy who sweeps up?"

"Oh you mean Fixer, he comes and he goes," said the bar keep pouring beer into glasses and lining them up.

"Fixer," Hank demanded?

"Yeah he repairs things around here – electrics, plumping, shelving – hell he even got my old mustang working the other week. I'm Bart by the way."

If the bikers gave a damn it wasn't evident on their faces, turning back to Bart Jerry held up the brush like it offended him in some way.

"Why did you hire a geek," he said in a low, dangerous voice that made it clear this was no casual enquiry, "Don't you know we're at war with them."

"Fixer isn't Vietnamese," Bart began to explain but hurling the brush to the floor Jerry leaned closer to the old guy and took something metallic from around his neck that clinked like heavy coins.

"You know what these are," he demanded tersely.

"Dog tags," the bald man swallowed no longer smiling.

"Dog tags," Jerry confirmed, "Two tours of Nam," he announced, "Serving my country, fighting little yella commies. And I didn't do that so you could employ one doing a job a white man could do a loyal citizen."

Licking dry lips and blinking a lot Bart tried to regain some of his lost bonhomie, "Fixer is a citizen," he squeaked, "He's got ID and everything."

"ID," Andy snorted taking a swig of his beer.

"I don't care what he's got," said Jerry putting the tags away, "I don't want him breathing the same air as me," he lifted his own glass, "These will be on the house of course given that I'm a war hero," it wasn't a question and Bart didn't voice any objection.

Hank said, "His kid brother is training to be a marine too," he cracked a smile, "When he gets out of the glass house."

Phil nodded, "25 days for breaking his drill sergeant's jaw; kid's got a real temper on him."

"Johnny'll do just fine," said Jerry, "He's got fire in his belly, I like that," nobody argued, you didn't mess with a Kreese. Like his older brother Johnny tended to lash out and he had a mean right hand.

Bart swallowed his hands were shaking so he took them off the bar, "Where are you boys from," he asked?

"What's it to you pop," Hank demanded?

"Nothing, just being sociable.

"Want us to go back do you," Jerry teased seeing terror in the old eyes, "relax dad we won't be here long," he looked around at the empty tables, "Where is everyone, they all taken the pledge?"

"It's Sunday," said Bart, "They're in church."

The bikers all snorted to a man and Jerry almost choked on his beer, "How come you're not there, boring god to tears with hymns and prayers?"

Bart had a business to run, he couldn't afford to be closed even for an hour even on the Sabbath, "I pray in private."

"Yeah with his hand," Andy made a crude gesture and Jerry snorted lightening up his mood lifting.

Sweep sweep sweep.

The sound made Jerry look around and there was the oriental guy, he had his brush back but Jerry hadn't seen or heard him pick it up off the floor, how had he moved so quietly or quickly.

He was about forty with thinning dark hair and a black beard and moustache, not much more than five feet in height he looked compact and strong. Wearing loose fitting fawn pants and a darker jacket top he wasn't even sweating in this heat.

"Hey geek, cut that out," Jerry called.

Sweep sweep sweep.

The continuous movement kept going, the stiff bristles scratching the timber floor. The man holding the brush didn't even look up as Jerry spoke which irritated the biker even more.

"Are you deaf slant," he exploded making his way towards the man called Fixer, who still didn't pause or look up or react in any way maybe the guy was deaf after all.

"Kick his ass Jer," said Hank wiping beer foam from thick lips, "Teach him some respect."

"Yeah we don't need no Charlie sweeping our floors," Andy agreed.

"Is that what you are yella man, are you from Hanoi," Jerry kicked a chair out of his way and it skittered across the floor.

Now the brush come to a halt and quick as a flash the blunt end of it tinked against Jerry's beer glass moving so fast he barely saw it. The blow was just a mild tap it didn't break the glass or spill any beer but it made the biker come to an abrupt halt.

He noted the way the brush was now held and it reminded him of something, strong grip he thought, good posture, clear eyes lacking any fear.

Most people feared Jerry due to his size, his corded muscles and his brash manner but not this guy who was half his size and old, well old compared to him.

"Your brush is touching my glass gook," he said his voice dangerously low, "Now that's just plain unfriendly."

He shoved the brush tip aside but quick as a flash the brush flipped in the air until the bristles were facing him an inch from his jacket, damn it if this guy wasn't standing his ground something like defiance in his eyes.

Jerry didn't like defiance he wasn't used to it, guys who defied him usually got a beating; the fierce Kreese temper coming to the fore.

"Look at this boys Charlie is threatening me," he made a joke of it but there was no humour in his voice just an undercurrent of impending violence.

He looked at his mates, "What am I going to do about this do you think, should I back down, should I apologize like a good boy and buy this joker a drink?"

Five heads shook in unison and Bart swallowed, "Hey I don't want any trouble guys," he began but Moses, who was half-Cherokee and almost never spoke threw Bart a look that was so loaded with danger that the bar keep dried up.

"Shove that brush up his ass," Andy urged, "bristles first."

Laughing Jerry turned back to find the little man gone, brush leaning against the bar, "Hey where did he go, did anyone see him run off; where the hell is he?"

Something was bobbing in his beer floating there before him, it was one of his own dog tags, somehow removed from his neck without him seeing or feeling anything he couldn't believe it, son of a...

With a roar he threw his beer aside and the glass exploded near the jukebox, "find that little bastard," he bellowed, "spread out and find him, I want him brought back here," the other bikers fanned out in a wave each picking a different direction.

Not joining them Jerry returned to the bar to peer at the little bald man behind it, "Tell me about Fixer," he demanded.

"I don't know much I think he's Japanese or something like that, he was an internee during the war at Manzanar."

In Jerry's view Nixon should be interning geeks right now not shaking hands with that idiot Mao, "So how did a guy like that end up here?"

"Fixer's been here as long as anyone can remember. His wife and kid died in the camp and he never got over it."

"Does he ever talk?"

"Sometimes, not often," Bart tried to be conciliatory, "Look why not call your boys off; Fixer won't cause you any trouble."

Fixer had already gotten under Jerry's skin; something about the guy bothered him he was just too composed too sure of himself and he handled that broom pretty good.

"Nobody messes with the cobras," he announced and opening his jacket he revealed a grubby t-shirt on which someone had printed a message he had dictated it read STRIKE FIRST STRIKE HARD NO MERCY.

"That's the philosophy of our chapter, I made it up myself and it sums up who I am and how I live my life. I'm a Kreese and proud of the fact. My dad was a marine during world war two, I'm a marine and my kid brother – he's going to be one too."

Wiping a glass on a fresh towel Bart tried to avoid the wolfish glare of the man before him, "no mercy," he muttered.

"Mercy is for losers," Jerry slammed his fist on the bar top.

"Is that how you're going to treat Fixer; without any mercy?"

"Gimme another beer," suddenly very thirsty his mouth dry Jerry studied the little man, "You ever seen in the military?"

"Once a long time ago," Bart admitted with some reluctance?

"Where you in the war did you see action," the last word was sneered like Jerry didn't believe this man capable of it?

"I was a camp guard at Manzanar; I had a heart murmur so I didn't see any front line fighting."

Figures thought Jerry with disdain then he blinked, "same camp Fixer was at, did you know him there?"

Bart shook his head placing a fresh drink before his one customer, "We weren't encouraged to socialize with internees but I remember his wife and kid dying it was very sad."

"Two less gooks in the world, what's sad about that?"

Not responding or agreeing Bart looked away and Jerry sensed that the man disliked him intensely. Well so what, he wasn't out to be Mr Popular.

Seeing a door slightly ajar with a light beyond Andy poked his head into a long narrow room with a small table at the far end, on it was a metal framed painting, it looked oil to him and showed the face of a boy aged about five, oriental with a pudding bowl haircut, bright eyes and a cute disarming smile.

Who the hell are you he thought approaching the art work, he was no expert and hadn't visited a gallery in his life, hell he'd flunked art it was for losers but he had to admit he was impressed by the life-like quality of the painting someone had talent.

Then a voice made him jump, "His name was to be Yukio," and there was Fixer emerging from the shadows, "Not a day passes when I don't think of him and imagine what he would have been like, would he have made me proud to be his father. By now he'd be about your age."

Sniffing Andy raised a meaty fist; it had knocked out a fair few teeth in its time. On his forearm where two tats he'd got at San Quentin a red rat and a blue shark's head both symbols of the White Brotherhood.

"Your kid is dead," he asked, "Maybe you'll be seeing him again very soon," grinning Andy revealed brown teeth that gave off a putrid stench.

"My name is Miyagi," aid the small man.

"Do I look like I care geek?"

"Keinosuke Miyagi."

"So what, one faggot name is much like another, Jerry wants a word so haul ass."

Not moving Fixer stepped closer to the painting as if trying to protect it, "I shall deal with Jerry presently."

Andy had to smirk, listen to this punk who did he think he was, deal with Jerry indeed that would be the day. Andy had seen Jerry take out a bar full of guys single-handed he was a monster and so thought the convicted felon am I.

He grabbed the metal frame to smash it and that was when he noticed it had a wire trailing of fit a wire leading to a socket, a power socket.

Direct current boiled into the big man raging and burning through his tendons and veins giving him a slight blue aura and making his eyes roll, his jaw clench and his limbs vibrate.

When he dropped to the floor fitting and trembling Miyagi removed the metal frame; an insulated glove on his hand so the electricity wouldn't affect him. He tugged and the wire came free of the socket breaking the current.

On rubber soled shoes he went to the table and replaced his son on the small altar he had made, bowing deeply to the dead child he had never even held in his arms.

Brad was alerted by the smell first an odd scent he didn't understand at first, was the place on fire? Entering a small kitchen he found a pan on a stove bubbling away, moving nearer he blinked at the pan interior seeing fish heads in some kind of gravy or stew. It made his mouth water even though he wasn't keen on fish. His old man had taken him fishing as a boy and made him eat part of a cat fish he had caught. Brad had been violently ill, puking, eyes watering; stomach cramping hell he'd even soiled his pants.

Later he learned he was allergic to fish and had never touched one since, but this stew or soup looked and smelled most appealing.

"My father," the voice made him jerk with shock and he turned fists raised and elbows tucked in like his boxing coach had instructed. Brad had learned to box in a correctional facility in New Jersey, one of many he'd ended up in as a wild youth prone to thieving, assault and setting fires.

Miyagi stood there observing him like he was a bug under a microscope, "My father was a fisherman on Okinawa," he continued.

"Is that right," as if Brad gave a shit, "Well mine drowned in Lake Ontario with my boot on his scrawny goddamn neck," payback for all the beatings and worse Brad had endured.

"You do not honour your father," it was hardly a question.

"He was an asshole – like you," Brad felt oddly twitchy around this little man and it wasn't like him. He had a four stone and six inch advantage over the creep so what did he have to fear?

"Are you hungry," the question was damned impertinent.

"No I'm not and even if I was I wouldn't eat that crap."

"In my country we never turned down the offer of a meal, we never knew when the next was coming you see."

What the hell was this, a potted life history, did Brad look like he cared. He reached for the pan handle but oddly it wasn't there it was no longer on the stove bubbling away it was rising and tipping over his head spilling its scalding hot contents into his hair, his beard, down his face and neck and into his clothing. The pan coming to rest on his skull so that when the rolling pin impacted with it very hard Brad's brain went into concussive shock.

Looking down at the body Miyagi sighed, the floor littered with fish heads and a fairly decent gravy. He hated wasting food even if it had been the subject of an important lesson. Now someone would have to clear this mess up and it would probably be him, after all wasn't it his role here to deal with problems in whatever form they took?

Hank reached the top of a short stairwell drawn by an unusual sound, a sort of repeated clicking that was getting on his nerves. Sound was one thing that could enrage the big New Englander, so long as he wasn't making it.

Once a neighbour of his had insisted on playing Alice Cooper at full volume when Hank needed to sleep, so going around Hank had broken in and shoved the guys head right into his stereo system jamming it in hard so that the guy's skull was fractured and his eyeballs burst.

Not his first assault by a long way in a career littered with broken jaws, limbs, ribs and amputated fingers. The finger thing had been his specialty when he was a debt collector for Fat Tony, some grease ball Italian who ran a numbers racket and used Hank as regular muscle.

That is until he tried to stiff Hank on a deal and lost his own, hacked off with a machete along with other body parts.

The clicking came from behind an old door, wrenching this open he found the geek sat on a stool holding a pair of chopsticks with which he was plucking something from the air.

"What the hell are you doing," had the guy lost his marbles, maybe he hadn't had any to begin with.

Held between the chopsticks something squirmed and twitched, there was the impression of many legs kicking. Taking his prize to an open window Miyagi released it and the thing flew off.

Hank felt repulsed but also impressed then his gaze was drawn to a complex chart on the wall, it showed a human outline criss-crossed with dozens of strange lines and curves but there weren't nerves or blood vessels.

"What the hell is this," he demanded tearing the thing down?

"Meridians," Miyagi caught another buzzing insect between the chopsticks.

"No such damn thing," snarled Hank.

"You don't think," said a man who released another bug through the window?

"We're flesh and blood nothing else," he bent his arm and flexed an impressive bicep on it was tattooed the word HATE, "Muscle and sinew," he added then towered over the smaller man threateningly like he'd done with every girlfriend he'd had before beating the sense out of them.

People had to know their place they had to know who was boss, and it was time this little punk was roughed up a bit.

"It is believed that striking certain meridians can induce pain and paralysis."

Hank was unimpressed, "Sounds like BS to me but you're welcome to try, when you get tired of bugs."

Suddenly a chopstick shot out and Hank felt a burning pain go up the left side of his body from hip to shoulder making him cry out and crumple. The other stick jabbed and his big right arm flopped uselessly numb from bicep to thumb.

The first stick double jabbed and his knees caved under him dumping him on the floor, tears ran down his face and his underpants grew warm and damp as he wet himself like a baby.

Miyagi leaned closer, "So much for muscle and sinew," he said jabbing Hank next right between his hate filled eyes.

Phil kicked a door aside, not the first one he'd kicked that day and he was getting sick of it; why wasn't Jerry here helping them instead of getting tanked up at the bar?

Thirsty himself Phil popped some gum into his mouth to get the saliva flowing then he was momentarily blinded by something, light reflecting off something metal.

Shielding his grey wolf-like eyes he entered the room and approached a low table upon which sat a small red case, nestled in this was what looked like a huge thick coin but was in fact – shit it was the Medal of Honor and had been awarded to a member of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, specifically to private Keinosuke Miyagi.

There was a sepia photo of him as a young man in uniform and it was Fixer, the gook who swept the floor.

Around this first medal were various other pins and awards, most he didn't recognise apart from the Purple Heart; the gook had won a Purple Heart?

As the door slammed Phil turned to see Fixer regarding him, eyes now shinning with anger and mouth set.

"You're a war hero," Phil spluttered?

"I fought for this country," Miyagi agreed.

"But you're a...," Phil had a racist insult on his lips.

"An American," Miyagi completed for him.

"No way man," head shaking Phil picked up the Medal of Honor, "Gooks like you never fought in our army on our side."

"How do you know, have you ever been a soldier?"

Having dodged the draft Phil felt only contempt for guys who wore a uniform or fought in foreign wars, stupid assholes getting themselves killed for nothing. In his book you fought for money and nothing else, screw patriotism it was for idiots.

"I'm tougher than any goddamn soldier," Phil hoisted the medal and threw it hard at the smaller man.

Amazingly and easily Miyagi caught it and quick as a flash he tossed it back, flipping it like a skimming stone. The heavy medal hit Phil on the jaw and with rolling eyes he toppled and hit the deck lying there stunned, the medal resting on his brawny chest.

Carefully Miyagi reached down and removed it, polishing his award before returning it to its rightful place.

Moses was a man of few words most of them obscene, the most physically impressive of the cobras he found himself in a shed out back of the bar figuring the little slant had run off because they usually did.

A brutal street and bar fighter he had faced lots of eastern guys, who thought they knew martial arts, and some had been good but none could take a decent punch from the likes of him. Moses could not only hit hard he was a vicious and dirty fighter who thought nothing of gouging eyes, grabbing balls or biting like a coyote.

He was wanted by the reservation cops for assault, attempted murder and rape but it didn't bother him because he was never going back on the res, there was nothing for him there no since he'd thrown his own brother off a roof top and left him with a broken back.

He blinked started to find a small altar amidst the hay bales; someone had hung up streamers covered with oriental calligraphy and on a small timber stool was the framed photo of a Jap with hair as long as his own.

Gogen 'the cat' Yamaguchi he read wondering who the hell that could be; a relative of the gook perhaps maybe his dad, was Yamaguchi his real name, hell of a mouthful.

"My sensei," the voice startled him, nobody sneaked up on Moses his hearing was too good but he hadn't heard the gook; the guy must have some Cherokee blood in him.

"What does that mean," Moses turned and took the small axe from his belt, the one he'd use to chop some punk's face open when he couldn't get his till open fast enough.

"Master, teacher, he taught me everything I know about karate."

A sneer spreading across his face the tribal warrior and wanted felon nodded, oh right so this guy was another nip who thought he could fight that he had some moves.

"Karate doesn't work against me," he hoisted the axe, "Or against this."

Eyes flitting to the axe blade Miyagi circled Moses keeping his hands down and back straight, he wasn't running away Moses noted and he didn't seem impressed. Could the creep have some balls after all, well if he did he was about to lose them.

"My master could defeat 4 armed men," said Miyagi with reverence.

"Well he isn't here," Moses chuckled, "you are."

Without further preamble he gave a tribal cry and lunged forwards chopping down hard aiming to severe a hand or at least some fingers, no way could this guy elude him for long he wasn't even armed and Moses had never lost a fight when he was armed and the other guy wasn't.

But Miyagi just wasn't there, he melted away and the axe chewed into a stack of hay slicing it wide open so that fragments went into his mouth, up his nose and into his eyes.

Blinking these clear with a cough he spun around slashing at nothing. Miyagi was 3 yards away composed and still. Okay neat move, nice footwork but you didn't beat a blade with dancing.

Attacking again with a flurry of tighter chopping blows Moses tried to back his man up against something solid.

Pain exploded through his ribcage piercing and breath stealing, halting him on his tracks. Then white hot agony ripped through his left knee making him stagger, topple and fall face first so that he got another mouthful of dirty hay.

He had no idea what just happened, logically nothing should have. He ought to chopping this punk into bloody slices by now, he should be winning so why wasn't he?

Pushing up spitting and cursing he turned to find Miyagi waiting for him arms folded looking almost bored. Bored, goddamn it.

Like a wild animal maybe a jaguar Moses threw himself forwards until something exploded in his solar plexus not only stopping him and doubling him over but making bile spew from between his teeth.

His head snapped up, those teeth clicking together then he was deaf in his left ear, his upper body torqueing around as he flew sideways towards a tall timber post, forced to hang onto this with both hands his weapon lost.

Breathing hard, blood in his mouth, his whole body pulsating with pain he pushed off the post, limped, staggered and tried to suck in oxygen. He felt like he'd been worked over by cops using Billy Clubs.

Miyagi wasn't even breathing hard, didn't look flustered at all, "Who the hell are you," Moses spat gore from his mouth, "How can you do this?"

Nodded to the photo his sensei the small man took a half step, "time to go," he said beginning to turn to spin, his whole body rotating. Moses saw his right foot leave the ground, his right leg spin through the air like a rotor blade.

He didn't know what a hook kick was and wouldn't have cared before today, he just knew that he couldn't avoid what was coming and marvelled at how much power this small tiny man could generate as the spin ended with a sickening crunch and then darkness.

Jerry was exploring a memory, he was 21 and it was before he got drafted, he and Johnny were out for a run, John was 18 and keen to sign up for Nam. He wanted to fight and he wanted to kill but first he had to get fit or he'd never ace the induction.

Their father had instilled in them the need for disciple, for hard work and for going through the pain barrier. Quitting was for wimps, winners didn't make excuses or look for escape routes they walked through pain they accepted it as part of life.

"Race you to rattlesnake gully," Johnny panted already blowing hard in the 27 degree heat.

"You must be joking," Jerry had replied but the kid wasn't and he took off, faced with no choice Jerry surged forwards refusing to be humiliated. He knew John was fit and determined but Jerry was the older brother the number one son, number one in every sense of the word.

Laughing Johnny opened up a gap between them, not much maybe a couple of yards. Furious Jerry closed it then Johnny shot ahead once more, "Come on old man you got arthritis or something."

Furious Jerry pumped hard he wasn't taking this disrespect nor was he losing this race, he never lost anything not a bet, a dare, a fight or a card game. Winners win every time; there was no other viable philosophy.

He drew level and Johnny threw him a snide look, "I'm gonna beat you jer," he snorted.

"Like hell you are," Jerry had gulped.

"Ten bucks on the outcome," Johnny had offered.

"Twenty."

"Fifty," he had two part-time jobs and couldn't afford to lose fifty.

"Why not it'll teach you a lesson you little," the elbow strike came out of nowhere and hit him right in the face hard, stunned and blinded he lost his footing and went down but as he did he snagged his brother's legs with an arm and Johnny fell too crashing onto his side with a grunt taking the skin off both elbows.

Bleeding heavily from his nose Jerry looked up, damn it if the kid hadn't hit him, "you little shit," he spat red.

"No mercy," his groaning kid brother lay there grinning despite obvious pain, "Remember the lesson?"

Jerry did, always do what it takes always use the unexpected move, never be predictable and never give the other guy an even break.

"You prick you broke my nose," but he was grinning despite himself.

"Probably an improvement," Johnny snorted, "Come on I'll crawl you to the gully on all fours."

Damn kid never gave up, Jerry had to admire that.

The roar of an engine snapped him back to the present, he knew that sound, "my Harley," he was off his stool and through the bat wing doors in a second but he was still too slow to stop Miyagi driving off on his bike, grinning, thumb cocked.

Nearby on the ground, sat back to back and hog tied with some kind of flex where Jerry's biker buddies all looking worse for wear.

No time to help them now he took Andy's key and gunned his machine, taking off after the thief, "You little son of a," the engine drowned out the rest of his words.

Miyagi and Kreese flew out of town in a hail storm of dust and tiny stones, one smiling the other cursing both pushing their bikes to the limit. Jerry blinked, surprised how well the gook handled a Harley like he'd rode one before, but that said he was going to be caught and punished.

Jerry had no idea how the guy had overpowered five good men but he was up against a Kreese now and they never lost. He wondered how long it would take to catch the punk but Miyagi was already slowing and then stopped near the town sign.

What was he playing at did he want to get caught, did he think he'd survive some Kreese justice?

"Okay creep," he said slipping brass knuckles over one fist, "Come to papa."

Then Miyagi gunned his engine and shot forwards heading straight for him on a collision course, Jerry couldn't believe it – the guy wanted to play chicken.

Well that suited him just fine because he never chickened out in his life and with a loud banshee scream he increased speed as the adrenaline kicked in. For a quiet little hick town KARATE was sure turning out to be full of interest.

Miyagi kept coming he wasn't turning away, 50 yards, 40, 30; Jerry felt his guts tightening was the nip intending to commit ritual suicide because if the bikes hit head on there would be no chance of survival.

Well he wasn't going to blink first, the right 'attitude' had been drummed into him by his father sometimes with words and often with a belt buckle _never cringe or whine boy, never drop your gaze or start to cry, you take your licks like a man and make sure the other guy swallows first._

It was how Jerry had lived his life and he was proud of that, proud to be like his dad – an uncompromising and aggressive son of a bitch.

But Miyagi was getting to him, getting under his skin; what was with this guy didn't he know when he was outclassed?

Turn away gook he mentally commanded, turn away you stupid...

20 yards, 15 Miyagi kept coming; his face set and eyes like flint, a Samurai on a Harley. Jerry uncoiled the chain around his waist, two leg-lengths of cruel steel he could use as accurately as a whip and he was going to whip this punk good.

With the bike fenders inches from catastrophe it was Jerry who deflected off course by such a few inches, the bikes closed and drew parallel. The two men looked at each other their mutual antipathy obvious, men from different worlds with different values yet both with wills of iron.

Jerry lifted his chain, circling it like a lasso and was about to unleash its full potential when then the side kick nailed him flush on the jaw. Next thing he knew he was torn off his bike and sent spinning through the air, the world careening around him, sky and ground swapping places half a dozen times, cacti flying by, the sun below him then above him then below him again.

He made contact with hard gravel and it took the skin off him in ten places, hair to, small bones crunched, teeth broke, his forehead peeled open like an orange and his legs twisted the wrong way their knees popping like coconuts hit by an air rifle. Jerry came to rest in a pall of dust his body a throbbing mass of pain as he lay and bled and groaned.

Footsteps approached him slow and measured then he was being studied, observed and looked over. The gook wasn't even marked didn't even look all that flustered like nothing had really happened.

Jerry couldn't move he wasn't sure he ever would again he felt broken into pieces, torn apart and left out in the sun to bleach and boil.

"Help," he croaked, "me."

"Mercy is for losers," his own words thrown back at him.

"Need...hospital."

"Two less gooks in the world," Miyagi sighed.

"You...you can't leave me like this."

But Miyagi looked like he could and quite easily then he squatted down, "They call me Fixer because I fix things," he pointed, "I fixed you and your boys pretty good I think."

You bastard Jerry was thinking, one day I'm gonna...but what was he going to do he was in no fit state to do anything, he might never even run again or walk. The thought made him sob with misery; he couldn't be a cripple he couldn't live like that.

"You gonna leave me to die."

"Dying is easy," said Miyagi, "It's living that's hard," he straightened, "Ambulance is on way I called before our chase."

Before, what the hell, before the chase – like he knew he was going to win, "Who are you?"

"Town called karate, I do karate...better than you I think, what else is there to know?"


End file.
